


Keep It There

by supercasey



Series: Red Vs. Blue One-Shots [19]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AI, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Depression, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Songfic, long fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercasey/pseuds/supercasey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic for the song "Keep It There" by The Weepies. There are many things in this world we cannot explain, many of these things surrounding human nature, such as why we keep things that are attached to bad memories, or why we keep returning to the same starting point, or why we keep going even after the most heart-wrenching tragedies. Even so, humans still carry on, and they bring about stories; this is one of those stories. This is the story of a man who is broken who still carries on, for whatever reason. For accuracy in some of the later scenes, I used direct lines from Red Vs. Blue in the story, found on roostertooths/./com to make sure they were correct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep It There

**Author's Note:**

> Heheheh, remember that time I wrote a shit-Washington fic that is deleted and you all have no proof of now? Yeah, I remember that bullshit. So, here, I actually wrote something I genuinely love.

Keep It There

Pairing(s): Agent Washington/Agent Connecticut, Agent Washington/Agent Maine, Agent Washington/Lavernius Tucker

Description: Songfic for the song "Keep It There" by The Weepies. There are many things in this world we cannot explain, many of these things surrounding human nature, such as why we keep things that are attached to bad memories, or why we keep returning to the same starting point, or why we keep going even after the most heart-wrenching tragedies. Even so, humans still carry on, and they bring about stories; this is one of those stories, this is the story of a man who is broken who still carries on, for whatever reason. For accuracy in some of the later scenes, I used direct lines from Red Vs. Blue in the story, found on roostertooths/./com to make sure they were correct.

A/N: This took two months, motherfuckers!

...

Everyone simply stared as the explosions went off. No one had yet to figure out who had set them off, but God, it was like watching the 4th of July in an American park, when the sky was clear and the lights were bright. The Agents of Project Freelancer all stared up at the sky with the wide eyes of children, watching the bursts of red and black spray through the air, little glimmers of sparks filtering into the night sky; it was beautiful and tragic all at once. No one moved or spoke as they watched, not only because they were amazed, but because they knew a comrade was in there, a comrade they all dearly cared for.

Without a word, Agent Connecticut jumped out of the Pelican, diving headfirst into the explosion. Agent Carolina ran to the opened back of the Pelican, watching Connecticut fall with wide eyes. "What in God's name are you doing, Connie?"

She got no reply, unless the sound of bullets and gunpowder were an answer, then yes, she got one, in the form of a mismatched masterpiece of death, destruction, and a looming afterthought of worry and stresses beyond her comprehension. Meanwhile, Connie was busy seeking out her best and one of her only friends; Agent Washington. Dear God, why had he set off the bombs so early, why risk his own life, why let himself either die or fall into enemy hands?

"Because there was no other way." Connie's mind filled in, making her heart wrench as she landed in a crotch, looking around carefully and with a practiced expertise.

It was too dark to see, the darkened smoke of gunpowder, desperation, and idiotic karma blocking quite a bit of Agent Connecticut's vision. Even so, she trudged on, firing off her Assault Rifle whenever she saw any Insurrectionist. For once, she didn't care if their leader was her boyfriend, all she cared about was finding her moron of a friend and beating the shit out of him for worrying her. For now, she'd settle with banging together a few Innie skulls, after all, they sort of caused this bullshit, right? Yeah, she figured, they kind of were the reason Wash was maybe gonna die.

"Don't go there," Connie's mind chastised, hating her for even comprehending such an elaborate and terrible event. "Don't even fucking go there, Constance."

So she didn't. No, Agent Connecticut did not at all imagine Agent Washington going through a murder most foul, did not imagine him begging for death while writhing in agony at her feet, did not imagine the Insurrectionist leader putting a bullet through his head, nor imagine Washington looking into her eyes with no helmet on, those grey-blue irises daring to clash against her own dark chocolate mud pair. She kept running, kept turning corners, kept falling, kept getting back up, kept suffering through clip after clip until she ran dry, deciding at the last minute to simply start mowing them down with her knives and brute force.

She wasn't known for any brute powers, but that didn't mean they didn't exist.

"Connie!" The word was shouted in a painful and bloody call, causing Connecticut to stop short of her sprint, almost falling to the ground. "Connie... over here... hurry."

And she did. Agent Connecticut wouldn't have given a rat's ass if her own lover had been in her way- she would've slammed right past him to get to where Wash was- ignoring any future difficulties it might bring into their relationship. For just a moment, her love life and government life did not matter, nor did the three bullets lodged into different parts of her short, frail body. All that mattered was limping to Agent Washington (When had she started limping anyhow) and collapsing beside him, managing a loose little thing of a smile as she stared at his pale face, no helmets on either of them to block their views.

It was quiet for a long while, only the crispy snaps of fire and the crackles of a drifting explosion's debree could be heard, along with the occasional clamp of a rushed set of boots belonging to the rare and inconsistent survivor of the massacre that was the Insurrectionist fortress. Agent Washington was in bad shape, blood dripping down his face from a medium sized gash in his head, just across his left eyebrow. It would leave a noticeable and neat scar, that is, if he survived. He groaned, smiling like the moron he knew he was at one of his best friends in the world, as if he was simply glad to be beside her, despite the situation they were currently trenched into.

"Sorry 'm late," Connie spat out, a bit of blood splattering like a drum beat onto the concrete. No one commented on it, certainly not Washington anyways. "You wouldn't fuckin' believe 'Lina... can't shut her damn mouth..."

"Well, who can blame her?" Wash asked, coughing hoarsely and wetly. Once again, no comments were voiced nor heard. "You're an... interesting person..."

"Thanks, you too." Connie replied, the last bit coming out as a loud series of coughs and hacks. Wash lifted a hand to pat her back, but it hurt too much to move, making him grimace and just watch, eyes curious and dying.

A longer pause passed overhead. They didn't say anything, only stared at each other, accepting that death was no longer an alternative and was now an ultimate decree of some ungodly force of both nature and time. They were not going to die old, therefore, death was no longer just a thought or unexpected experience that might happen in later years. It was here and now, and God, it was far more intense then they imagined. Never mind that it was war and there was blood and smoke everywhere, never mind they were breathing their last breaths, never mind they were far too young to die-

-Death was coming like a progressing marching band, and they were still waiting for it to move onto their road, ready to hear the drum beats and the blows of a loud trumpet.

"This is it, huh?" Wash asked, smiling again, wincing at the pull it gave to the fresh and bloody gash across his forehead. "Figured I'd die alone in a small house, with nothing but cats to keep me company."

Connie chuckled, trying not to accept the smoke entering her already worn out and burning lungs. "You're such a weirdo."

"So 're you." Wash muttered back, beginning to close his eyes.

Connie swatted him on the leg, producing an almost-yelp from Wash, who squeezed his eyes shut in pain and opened them with a scowl. "Don't die yet, okay?"

"Why not?" Washington asked, grumbling something about needing less mean friends in the next go-about of life. "We're gonna die either way, aren't we?"

"I know but... I don't wanna die second, okay? I'd have to live without you for a few minutes..." Connecticut explained, frowning at the younger Freelancer.

Wash sighed, looking Connie in the eyes. "Connie, can you promise me something, something ridiculous and lame?"

"Sure," Connie agreed, attempting a nod, but cringing in pain at the last second. "What is it, and I swear to God, if you do a Star Wars reference here, I'm gonna fucking punch you."

"Just... don't let me go, okay?" Washington asked, tears threatening to brew over. "Don't let me die in front of you or some horseshit, and... if we make it outta here, maybe... maybe we could catch a movie or get a coffee?"

Connie smiled, accepting that in a weird kind of way. "I'd like that a lot, Agent David Cooper Washington." She said, using his full title. May as well tease him before she goes, die as you lived and all that shit.

And for a moment, Agent Connecticut could imagine it. She could imagine a lifetime where she and Washington were normal people, him being some nerdy college kid with a beanie hat and a cat on his shoulder, asking her out with a stutter like nothing else in his mouth, spilling over like a tidal wave into his speech pattern. She could also imagine a lifetime where Agent Washington was not present, where instead there was a gangster boy with a Mohawk and a sour attitude, picking her up at a club and taking her for a ride. Both seemed rather nice, if not a bit odd, but comforting.

And for no particular reason whatsoever, an evening with a college boy drinking cheap coffee at a diner sounded a lot nicer. But for now, Connecticut could pretend she was getting lost in a motorcycle ride, feeling the wind rushing in her hair, when in reality, she was enjoying the rushing white noise of a one eyed boy playing a guitar, of an aquamarine blue bus parked at a shitty street corner, of a red-headed girl driving at midnight without a care in the world, of a cat that crawls into her lap with the name of a city she doesn't want to imagine, and of a blond boy holding her close and muttering soft nothings into her ear, as if she were his everything.

She never even heard Agent Maine coming, nor did she feel him carry her far away from the smoldering remains of a mission gone wrong.

...

Got three dollars burnin' in my pocket, I know, I know

Got three dollars burnin' in my pocket, I know, I know

I got, I got, I got to keep it there

...

This was it. She was really gone.

Agent David Cooper Washington stared down at the dog-tags presented to him, hating them with every fiber of his being. David Cooper was not an angry man most of the time, but this was an exception. On this day, well, night rather, Agent Constance Green Connecticut laid dead in some escape pod miles away, while her dog-tags laid to rest in Agent Tex's outstretched hand, held out to Washington, who had yet to respond or even really react. Why was Tex even giving him these? He wasn't a family member nor her lover, not that he hadn't thought of the second one quite fondly.

"She doesn't have any living family in our sector... she'd want you to have these." Tex explained, grabbing Washington's closed fist by his side, holding it up and enclosing the dog-tags in his hand, forcibly closing his fingers around the tags. "Keep them safe."

With that, Agent Texas left the room, leaving only Agents New York and South Carolina to stand there, exchanging a worried glance between the two of them. Washington wished he could do that, just look into York or Carolina's eyes and automatically know how to act in a given situation, or at least on how to help a little. But Wash didn't have anything like that, not with Carolina, and certainly not with York. He'd just have to stand there, feeling more and more alone as the seconds swept by, draining away his will to fight anymore.

"We'll give you some space." Carolina finally offered, grabbing York's arm and more or less dragging him towards the door of the locker room.

"Bu-" York stopped his tongue after receiving a look from Carolina, which shut him up and got him walking, leaving the room beside Carolina.

Washington stared after them, then stared at the dog-tags, fiddling with them in his hand; he'd never known that Connie was an orphan, nor had he ever known that her last name was Green. Out of nowhere, he swung around, chucking them at the locker that had had the 'Connecticut' sign ripped off; the handy work of Agent Maine by no doubts, after all, he, Wash, and Connie had been like a terrible trio. Wash glared at the dog-tags as they fell to the floor, letting out a clanging sound. Without a word, Washington waltzed over to the tags on the floor, picking them back up and holding them earnestly in his rough-skinned hand.

"Dammit, Connie... why didn't you let me in?" Washington asked, staring at the dog-tags, as if they were Connie herself, having an honest chat with the blonde man. "Why'd you go join the Insurrectionists anyway? Was... did I chase you away, did I chase Maine away too; he won't even talk to me anymore, not after he got Sigma..."

As if on cue, the locker room doors opened, but Wash didn't look up from where he was kneeling on the ground, cupping the dog-tags in his hands, staring at them with teary eyes, refusing to let it out. Heavy footsteps echoed through the room, a deep clanging that would've made most people nervous, but David Cooper, who had known that exact clang for years and years now, no longer feared it's monotonous clinking like so many others did. Finally, it stopped, a heavy weight of power seemed to seep behind Washington; he finally stood, turning around and having to look up to meet Maine's face.

"Hey, Matt." Washington greeted, holding up the dog-tags to show Maine; for a moment, he felt seven years old again, showing a childhood friend his marble collection or something of the sort. "Tex gave me Connie's tags... do you need 'em more?"

Maine shook his head, reaching out both of his hands and closing Wash's fingers further around the dog-tags; the dome helmet left no emotions for Wash to maybe pick-up on, but he hardly minded, it was Matt after all. A soft growl left Maine's lips, an almost clear 'Keep it' could be heard, at least, if you knew how to translate growls and hisses into English. Washington couldn't help but smile, nodding at the much bigger and taller man; he had forgotten how nice it felt to be this close to Maine, much less talk to him again (And by talk he meant that Wash was talking and Maine growled out tiny replies).

"It's good to see you again, Matt." Wash said, smiling at the older man. "I've missed you lately."

Maine only nodded, turning away to leave, Wash frowned, suddenly feeling like that act of kindness from Maine would be the last he'd ever see of him. "So that's it? You're just gonna leave me, just like that?" Wash asked, growing more and more angry, tightening his hands into fists of rage. "Why are you even avoiding me, am I really that shitty of a friend, am I pushing you away too!?"

The SPARTAN shook his head, helmet reflecting the ceiling lights, showing Washington's reflection; when had his armor looked so worn, when had he looked so damn small, when had his armor made him look like a monster? Maine stared at Washington, turning away again, shoulders sagging as he started to leave. Wash wouldn't have it. He charged after Maine, catching him by the shoulder; he didn't think he'd be able to really shove Maine around, nor did he have faith that he could slow Maine down, but he hoped the message would be clear. He wasn't losing Maine too, not this time, not after losing Connie.

Out of nowhere, Sigma popped up, smiling wickedly at Washington; it made fear prickle in his spine, as well as puffs of red, hot anger seemed to swing through his head. "Hello, Agent Washington."

Wash hesitated a bit before glaring at Sigma from under his helmet, hating the AI that he blamed for Maine's distant behavior. "Sigma, shut down." He looked to Maine, feeling how much rage was in his friend. "This is a very private matter, one that needs to be discussed right now."

"Of course, Agent Washington. I'm merely hear to translate for Agent Maine, as to make your conversation easier." Sigma explained, arms folded behind his back.

Wash glared furiously at Sigma, no longer really feeling the fear as much as he felt that puff of anger, now growing into a roaring flame of hate. "I don't need a computer to translate; I can understand my friend just fine."

"I'm only tr-"

"No." Washington's tone was cold, dark, and full of his distaste for the AI. "I'm going to have a talk with Agent Maine, and I'm going to have that talk alone."

Sigma suddenly glared at Wash, showing the returned feeling of distaste. "Agent Maine thinks of you quite a bit, Agent Washington. Rather fondly might I add."

Washington felt interest enter among the anger like a roaring wave, and it felt just a tad stronger, if for a moment, than the anger's flames. "Like what?" He couldn't help but ask; he knew Maine wanted to leave, but God, he felt like if he let go, he'd lose him forever. "And who are you to dwell in Agent Maine's mind? Protocol clearly states-"

"-Protocol can only be so right, Agent Washington." Sigma interrupted, that God awful smirk returning with a vengeance. "From what I've seen of Agent Maine's mind-"

A growl interrupted him, coming from Maine. Out of nowhere, Washington almost understood their relationship; Sigma was the brains, and Maine was the brawn. Maine was just a puppet, a toy that Sigma could play with and use, Wash just didn't know what for. But the growl had been clear, and with fear and worry being the only things now existing in Washington, he let go, watching as Maine started walking away again. Sigma looked momentarily confused, or at least angry, and turned his attention to Maine, looking ready to have the SPARTAN turn right back around and let him continue his chat with Washington.

"Agent Ma-" Sigma was cut off as Maine swung around, his domed helmet staring at Sigma; Wash knew that Sigma was certainly getting the full amount of Maine's glare, and he couldn't help but shiver in remembrance of it.

As Agent Maine finally reached the door, hand on the handle, he turned around, his domed helmet meeting Washington's own. He pulled off his helmet, looking at Wash with those stinging grey eyes that reminded him of smoke and old ash; it made most people shiver out of fear, but he only shivered as that warm tingle entered his gut, as it always did when he got the rare chance to see Maine's eyes. He had seen them more at the front lines, or in the barracks of his Basic Training, but he nowadays hardly even saw Maine much less his legendary eyes; as far as Wash knew, only he, Carolina, and Co- ... only Carolina and him had seen them.

Maine stared at Wash, and he only nodded, watching Wash tuck Connecticut's dog-tags into a pocket of his armor. "I know," He said, swallowing deeply. "Keep 'em safe."

Maine only nodded, leaving Washington once more to be alone; Wash didn't want to admit it, but he knew Maine wasn't coming back. But something would come back in his place... Wash just didn't know what it was yet.

...

I got an old ghost locked in my closet, I know, I know

I got an old ghost locked in my closet, I know, I know

I got, I got, I got to keep it there

...

The midnight moon forced a majestic light across the desert, allowing it's holy glow to light the way for weary travelers, two of which were resting in a large military owned Warthog, which thundered across the dirt road of the desert relentlessly. Agent Washington, the youngest of the pair, kept his mouth firmly shut as the Meta drove the car, trying to simply ignore the ghost of a man he had once called his friend. He kept himself busy by reading over the instructions Command had given him on handling the Meta, mostly containing ways to 'put him down' if he gave Wash too much trouble, most of which were just instructions on how to run, hide, and (hopefully) ambush the Meta.

Washington knew that the shit on the screen wouldn't work, and as Connie would say, one does not simply defeat Agent Maine; he remembered vaiguely how Connie had used an accent when she had said it, resulting in South shouting 'nerd' playfully and York falling into a fit of laughs. Wash let out a soft huff, remembering all of those good times, of all the popcorn fights he and Connie had enjoyed, of the failed sparring matches against Carolina, of the poker games against North and York, of the football games with Maine and South, of the movie nights with Florida and Wyoming. The man sighed, shaking his head; those days were gone, and he needed to quit living in the past.

A low growl emitted from the Meta, making Washington jump a bit, turning to look at the Meta. "I'm fine." He lied, rubbing at his eyes; he had left his helmet off, finding it to be too confining for him; prison had really caused a bad fear of small spaces to erupt in him. "Keep your head in game, Meta; you'll be free before ya'h know it."

Out of nowhere, the Meta stopped the car, the only thing keeping Wash from going flying being Maine's arm over his chest, completely engulfing the skinny man's middle. "Meta! What the fuck was that!?" Wash shouted, trying to get out from the Meta's grip, but he couldn't get him to budge even a bit. "This isn't funny, let go!"

The Meta suddenly grabbed Wash by his throat, holding him up before throwing him harshly into the red sand, it being a rather flat desert after all. Wash began to stand on his own two feet, but the Meta was upon him in an instant, grabbing him but the back of his armor plating, holding him back up before smashing him deliberately into the ground, over and over again. A cut opened up in Wash's forehead, while a bit of blood dribbled out from the corner of his mouth. When finally pinned on the ground, being given a moment's rest, Wash spat at the ground, watching as a tooth fell in a tiny puddle of blood.

"Meta!" Wash yelled, his voice cracking from pain and surprise. "What is the matter with you? We're on a mission for God's sake, this is no time for-" He was cut off.

The Meta held Washington up by his throat, looking into the younger man's grey/blue eyes for some tint of fear, or even submission, but Wash was strong, and he kept such an emotion from pooling over into his very bones, trying to look both tough and defiant against the Meta's treatment of his person. The man, by some miracle, managed to free himself from the Meta's death grip on his back, rolling away from the creature, getting on his own feet after a moment and just running, running to find help or at least live longer; he would not die at the hands of the Meta, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

But no man can outrun the Meta.

Washington let out a rather startled yelp as the Meta was upon him once more, making him fall and roll as he hit the ground, keeping a few of his ribs crack from the Meta's grip after being pinned. "Meta..." His voice was less angry now, just tired and pained really. "Why... just, stop, okay?"

As if that's all he needed to hear, the Meta ceased attacking Wash, only keeping him pinned, domed helmet being just as unsatisfactory as it was a few years ago. "Okay... we're all calm now... there's no need to hit anyone, or break anything... we're okay..." Wash was breathing heavily, the pain of breathing feeling much worse than the ache of the Meta's body weight on him. "Now, wanna tell me what the fuck that was all about?"

The Meta glared at Washington, as if he were nothing but a tiny little worm, and the Meta was the all powerful falcon, too busy to really care much about Wash until he needed something to eat or something to play with for awhile. The creature of a man looked away, the moon reflecting off of his helmet, giving an ominous air to the whole situation, making Wash swallow gruffly, hating the position he was in with a passion. After a moment, the Meta stood, holding Washington up by the back of his suit once more, making Wash's heart plummet; he was not about to get shredded, not again at least.

With the desperation of a wild animal, Washington kicked furiously at the Meta's gut, hearing an cannibalistic roar before the man let go, giving Wash time to duck and roll, copying his earlier escape attempt, but with a much clearer plan this time. If he couldn't outrun the Meta, he'd just have to put him down... if that was possible at least. Wash yelped as the Meta came at him, much like a freight train, to which Wash was actually a smart cow and got the fuck outta the way before it could hit him! The shorter man stood shakily, dusting himself off a bit, and yanked the pistol from his gun holster, pointing it at the Meta.

"Okay... you wanna fight, big guy?" Washington asked, grinding his teeth as he glared at the Meta.

The Meta didn't reply, unless running at him like a bull was an answer, in that case then yes, he did receive an answer, a rather harsh one at that. Wash jumped over the Meta, landing in a roll and spinning around, watching the Meta cease his run, turning to stare at him, the visor showing nothing but the dark orange that Wash thought to represent insanity and a lack of emotion. It must've clicked that the whole 'charge and control' thing wasn't working, because the Meta yanked out his Brute Shot, pointing it at Wash; it was like a Western stand off, two powerful opponents facing each other, neither backing down.

It was the calm before the storm.

It broke like a twig. As if in sync, they both ran at each other, this time with less force, firing off rounds at each other like the Revolutionists from America's beginning acts of freedom, a desperate surge for dominance, and in that moment, that's what Wash finally saw it to be. This was a fight to be Alpha; not the alpha he was familiar with, no, this was a fight to be the alpha of their little mission crew of two. And with that in mind, Wash didn't hesitate to hold back, seeing as the Meta wouldn't either; if the Meta wanted to be in control, he'd have to kill Washington first, or somehow find a way to beat him into submission.

But Washington had been beaten before, and he already knew the routine.

At least one or two bullets actually hit the Meta as they charged at each other, while a grenade from the Brute Shot shot shrapnel straight into Wash's leg, but he only stopped for a moment, clenching his jaw as the pain sprinkled throughout the entirety of his lower half, making him hiss and squeeze his eyes shut, the hurting feeling being all too familiar, yet still terrible. He stood, fighting it off with the simplicity of a tainted sanity that ruled his domain of a mind, making his feet keep going up and down, up and down; it was a continuous act of self preservation and desperation that would make most opponents back off. Though... the Meta was no ordinary opponent.

The Meta, as predicted, did not at all hold back, firing off another shot with his weapon; Wash dodged, if only barely, and reloaded his cruddy excuse of a banged up pistol, aiming it accordingly at the Meta and firing off as the creature got closer. This time, Wash was rewarded with the sight of blood leaking from a newly engrained hole in the monster's chest. The Meta screamed like a cursed demon of Hell, finally reaching Wash and tossing aside his now empty Brute Shot, holding Wash up by the collar of his chest plate, looking again into his grey/blue eyes. The man breathed heavily, much like Wash was doing, but much less desperately; he had learned even before Project Freelancer to ignore pain for the most part.

Washington gasped for air, unable to catch enough into his burning lungs; prison had given him little chances to keep his skills well-preserved after all. Finally, as if by some wonderful gift of God, the Meta let go, watching silently as Wash dropped to his feet, biting back a horrifying scream as he landed heavily on his wounded leg, the little stings and pains echoing like an empty cave of voices through his body. Wash collapsed to the ground, cheek pressed none-too comfortably against the cool red sand, the feeling almost soothing in the aftermath of the seemingly pointless endeavor of a battle. The Meta started to walk away, but Wash's hand caught his ankle; it wouldn't hold him back, it only made him pause, frozen in place.

"Don't you dare walk away from me, we're not done here." Washington gritted out, because he wasn't going to give up, he wasn't going to let Maine turn his back on him, not again at least. "You started it, so let's finish it..."

The Meta turned around completely now, his visor seeming to ooze into the younger Freelancer, slowly but surely corrupting the once naive and innocent man. He crouched down, still facing Wash, and simply patted him on the head, as if he were patting a dog. He let out a growl, one that Wash at first couldn't decifer, but after a moment, he understood. Without a word, Wash sat up, this time letting the hiss pass his lips. The Meta, who had walked ahead, swung around, an almost playful sort of growl leave his helmet.

"Oh, fuck you." Washington muttered, but smirked victoriously none-the-less. "You already said it, so no take-backs."

The Meta only shrugged, returning to the vehicle. Washington was hesitant at first after getting most of the shrapnel out of his leg, but eventually, he re-entered the car, this time more cautious of the beast beside him. Even hours later, when the sun peaked upon the horizon and Wash was zoning out, he couldn't help but wonder why he kept the Meta around. Really, he could've done the mission alone and been fine, after all, he was only fighting Simulation Soldiers, so why would he need help? Still... he liked having the Meta there, even if he was only a ghost of Maine now... he'd keep him around, if only as a reminder.

A reminder that he had, at one time, been something more than a monster.

...

I came down on a bottle rocket

Found my heart right where I locked it

Last night like rain on chalk

It's gone like money in my pocket

...

"There they are. Land right next to 'em." Sarge ordered confidently, hand resting and squeezing on the top of Grif's seat, visor facing the snowy, outside world of Sidewinder.

Grif nodded, flexing his hands on the steering sticks of the Pelican. "R-right, land." He stuttered out, looking around the control panel wildly.

Sarge paused, looking around the control panel as well, before coming to a terrifying revelation. "You do know how to land this vehicle, don't ya?" He asked, swallowing hard.

"Sure, that just means stop flying, right?" Grif asked, looking towards Sarge, eyes wide beneath his orange helmet; he was shaking slightly.

"Brace for impact!" Sarge screeched, backing off blindly from Grif's chair, smashing right into Simmons, who yelped and grabbed Sarge wildly, sending them both to the floor with a loud 'thump'.

Tucker gulped, hugging Caboose for dear life, as if the blue rookie's very presence may save his ass from certain death. "Oh shit! This is gonna suck!" He yelled. Everyone but Caboose began screeching and freaking out inside of the ship.

"I still haven't got my peanuts." Caboose complained, pouting behind his visor as he sighed, saddened by his lack of what he thought of as flight food.

Doc looked away from the epic battle of Agent Texas vs. Agent Maine/The Meta vs. Agent Washington, only to see a massively sized Pelican heading straight for him. He whimpered, holding up his arms to cover his face before twisting, shivering not fro, the intense cold of Sidewinder, but from the incoming and certain crushing of his person. Out of nowhere, the Pelican stopped, millimeters from crashing right into Doc. Everyone inside was sent smacking dead-square into the front window, making a loud and comical squeaking sound as they slid off the window and onto the ground.

"Ow..." Grif muttered, kicking his boots through the window to make a crawling space, easily maneuvering through the now broken window and into the soft cushioning of the snow. "That fucking sucked."

Doc nodded, almost fainting as he breathed a little easier, simply glad that he hadn't been crushed to death by a giant, out of control Pelican; that would've made an interesting obituary.

From behind a tree came Agent Washington, who had smartly ducked out of the way along with Epsilon; he'd deny to anyone watching that he had been shaking and had nearly pissed when he saw that thing coming at him. "I would say that was the cavalry, but I've never seen a line of horses crash into the battle field from outer space before." He stated, shaking off the remaining snow from his armor.

Washington began walking out from behind the tree, but stopped. The Reds and Blues might be holding a grudge, he knew he would, but... they'd kill him the first chance, if not Caboose, then Sarge. After all, Sarge had nearly done it last time, what's to stop him from finishing the job, not to mention that the fight thus far had taken quite a bit outta Wash; he wouldn't be able to do too much in defense against them. However, he flew it away, figuring he was better of worrying about it later. In the background, Epsilon asked something, but Wash couldn't quite catch it. Instead, he turned to Epsilon, breathing heavily.

"Come on," Wash said, motioning his head towards the Reds and Blues for Epsilon. "Let's see how many of your friends survived that."

He wouldn't exactly a friendly gesture in later years, though the others might say differently.

Epsilon stopped for a moment, lowering the unused Assault Rifle in his hands, holding it loosely in his armored, artificial fingers. "You know they're not really my friends." He said.

Washington put it aside, knowing too well that the AI was lying through his teeth; he had known Epsilon for at least ten minutes in his brain, hadn't he? Even if the intrusion wasn't so harmless as it should've been... "That's okay," He says instead of something more mean or forceful, even adding humor into it. "I'm sure none of them really survived." He thought that might actually be true though.

By time Washington and Epsilon made it over to the Reds and Blues, they were all slowly recovering from the crash; Simmons had his helmet off momentarily to vomit in the snow, Grif was laughing at him but swaying on his feet from dizziness, Caboose was amazingly unaffected by the crash and waving excitedly at Epsilon upon his arrival, Tucker was groaning and laying lazily on the ground face first, and Sarge was cursing as he glared at the Pelican, his helmet held in his hands before he clicked it on, the white of his hair hidden from the matching white of the winter's snow.

"Grif! Look what you did to our ship." Sarge yelled, pointing at the Pelican with one hand, the other holding his amazingly helpful and trusty shotgun.

Grif shrugged, so used to Sarge's yelling and the many accidents that came from fighting the faked wars of Red and Blue that he simply didn't give a shit anymore. "Ah fuck it, it's a rental." He explained, walking away, towards where Simmons was washing his mouth out with water from a canteen and pulling back on his helmet.

Sarge stopped, looked at the crashed Pelican, then at Grif, then back at the ship. "Good point, fuck it." He said, giving the ship a mighty kick with his armored foot.

Washington watched with an amazed face underneath his helmet as the ship completely flipped over, hurtling off the cliff. A loud explosion quickly followed. No but Wash really paid attention to it, which was a shame, considering it had been one Hell of a sight to see, especially since Wash sorta knew what Sarge was like, and would not otherwise expect him to be capable pf such a task without seeing it first hand. After a minute, he simple sighed, shaking his head before rejoining with Epsilon, who was busy pulling away somewhat softly from a hug from Caboose, looking around wildly.

"Has anyone seen Tex?" Epsilon asked, and Washington almost cried, almost wanted to, but for all of his military training and scenes of Allison dying replaying in his head, he did not react emotionally to the situation like most people would've.

"I'm sorry Epsilon," No he wasn't, he was never sorry about following orders, or about the things that Maine did when provoked. "The Meta captured her in the memory unit." He would've said she's gone, but he's not a monster; he wouldn't cut an opened wound.

"There it is!" Epsilon suddenly shouts, shoving past the others to get to it; Wash follows, albeit much slower and with more grieving almost in his pace, because if Tex is there, so is the Meta.

Washington looked at the capture unit carefully, hovering over it. "Epsilon, she's stuck in there; there's nothing I can do for her."

"So? Let her out!" Epsilon ordered; Wash almost spat out that he didn't take orders anymore, but that was a lie, considering he had followed quite a few in order to reach that point in the first place.

So he didn't mention it, only swallowed roughly, feeling the tension rise in the air. "We rigged it one-way," He explained, hoping that would be enough, but all eyes were still on him, meaning he had to continue on. "We didn't want you getting out."

Everyone stared, the tension growing like a wet sponge, seeping and making the air terribly suffocating. Washington looked away, then back at the capture unit, almost being able to hear Texas in his head. He could see two different versions; Allison and Agent Texas. Tex was strong and defiant, constantly challenging her peers yet sticking with them to the end, trying to keep them alive just as much as she tried to get the job done. Then there was Allison, a strong and independent woman who did not seem like the motherly type, but none-the-less cared deeply and passionately for her one and only daughter, as well her loving husband.

These woman were both the same person, one is original, and one is mass-produced as a replacement for the original. Both are important, and both are full of too many emotions to count. Washington had known these things, he had known how desperately this woman had fought, how she had broken promise after promise, how she had fallen in love with someone she shouldn't have in the project, how she had died with her last thought being about her daughter, how she wished she hadn't harmed Carolina so badly. Washington had known alot of things concerning Agent Texas and Allison, things he shouldn't have, but he had known them none the less.

And then, Washington was back to the present, before he could get too far lost. "Well un-rig it." And the way Epsilon said it was meant to hurt, meant to sting and burn, meant to harm Agent Washington for his foul deeds against the greatest love of his life.

"I can't!" Washington snapped, making everyone back off a step, even Epsilon, who looked like he wasn't finished, like he was ready to finish what Tex started there in Sidewinder. "Not without some tools at a lab at least..." That calmed everyone down, made them relaxed, even tame for some of them.

"What do you need specifically?" Simmons asked, coming forward as the computer expert of the group; if anyone could help, it was him. "I might be able to find something in the bases."

"Go," Washington commanded, turning to the capture unit, swallowing harshly and sadly, as if he knew he couldn't fix her. "I'll need basic tools, a few screwdrivers mainly, maybe even a few batteries to keep it running if we jump it with some jumper-cables..."

Simmons nodded, grabbing Grif, Tucker, Caboose, and Sarge to help him look, leaving Doc, Epsilon, and Washington alone to stare at the capture unit and wait.

Epsilon, for his part, only starts shaking his head, as if he's hearing nothing but lies from Agent Washington. "She's not gonna make it, is she?" He whispered in a voice that was better suited to Alpha.

"There's only so much I can do for her, Epsilon." Wash explained, looking away from the distressed AI. "I can make a beacon for her to follow out... but it's her choice, not our's."

Epsilon stared at the Unit for a long time, mind more than likely a whirl of colors, unorganized chaos, and desperation. Finally, he looked to Wash, glaring hard. "I'm going in after her." He stated, looking ready to jump.

Washington stepped forward, to his own surprise, and forced his arms to hold Epsilon's body in place. "Don't." He ordered, but regained his composure seconds afterwards. "I can't stop you but... at least say goodbye to them first."

Epsilon scoffed, glaring at Wash from behind his visor, from the non-organic body he had stolen for his own purposes. "I hate go-"

The Meta woke up.

...

See those stars shinin' in your eyes, I know, I know

See those stars shinin' in your eyes, I know, I know

I got, I got, I got to keep them there

...

The rain thumped like an elephant's stomp as the storm overhead raged on. Blue Base was loud as ever, being filled with the Reds after a thunderbolt had taken out their power, forcing them to take refuge in Blue Base (Much to Sarge's anger). They were all doing something; Simmons was sitting on the kitchen counter typing away on his computer, Sarge was grumbling to himself while sipping on his third beer in an armchair, Caboose was on the floor coloring, Grif and Tucker were playing against each other in some sort of fighting game, and Washington was into the back of the room alone. Wash kept to himself, simply watching over the large living room/kitchen like a mighty hawk.

"Yo, Wash!" Tucker yelled over his shoulder, barely catching the Freelancer's attention. "Come on, dude! Join in on this shit, Grif is totally fucking cheating!"

"Am not!" Grif shouted, snapping the buttons down like a pro. "I used to play at arcades all the time as a kid; I'm a professional!"

"A professional dirtbag." Sarge filled in, making Caboose giggle on the floor and Grif glare at the screen harder.

Simmons chuckled, looking up from his laptop to steal a glance at Grif. "Sir, I believe you mean 'Professional-Fatass-Lazyman-McGee'?" He stated proudly.

Sarge glared at Simmons, eyes half-lidded due to tiredness. "I know what I mean, Simmons." He gritted out, making it sound way more scary than was strictly necessary.

"Sorry, sir! You're right, Grif is a dirtbag!" Simmons squeaked out, deciding that just returning to the internet was a smarter move for him.

"~Kissass!" Grif cheered in a melody producing tone, smiling brightly at the taller Irishman.

Simmons glared at Grif, but said nothing, still certain that the internet was much less scary than Sarge (He's wrong, kids). "Seriously, Wash, get your ass over here already!" Tucker ordered/begged lamely. "Grif is a piece of shit and I need someone who won't cheat to play against."

Washington sighed, making his way over to Tucker, ignoring the way Simmons shied away from him. 'You killed his friend' Wash reminded himself, still strolling towards the others 'You're nothing but a murderer'. Caboose glanced up and waved at Wash as he passed, bright blue eyes twinkling from the lights in the room. Wash tried to ignore him, simply not looking Caboose's way as he passed; Simmons frowned at this, but he kept going, seating himself beside Tucker once he reached him, taking Grif's place as the orange simulation soldier went off to hang out with Simmons.

The once grey and yellow Freelancer let loose several strings of curses as he played video games with the younger Blue, unable to hide the smallest of smiles at the way Tucker beamed, laughing whenever he managed to continuously kill of Washington's character. It all felt... surreal. Caboose was like a little kid playing indoors, Sarge was like a tired grandpa refusing to join in on the youngster's games, Grif and Simmons were like an arguing married couple, Tucker was like a slightly annoying little brother, and Wash-

Washington was, for once, the older brother.

It felt odd to say at the very least, after all, Washington had grown quite fond of finding North and York to take that role back in Project Freelancer, where Florida and Wyoming were the old couple, Maine was the grumpy older brother, York was the annoying middle brother, Carolina was the over-protective older sister, South was the terrifying yet really cool older sister, Connie was the chilled out yet underestimated sister, and the Director was the real father of all of them (Literally though for Carolina). The blonde smiled to himself, for once, not finding as much pain and misery from his old memories of his teammates.

"Agent Wash!"

Wash looked away from the game, just in time for Tucker to kill him off with a victorious 'Whoop'. "Yeah, Caboose?" He asked, looking fondly at the Blue rookie.

Caboose sat up, holding up the somewhat poorly drawn picture the man had drawn; on it was a yellow stick figure, a blue one, a teal one, and a yellow/cobalt one, while on the other side of the picture was a red stick figure, another yellow one with 'Griff' written above it, a red/brown one, a brown one, and a pink one. The picture had two grey squares that Wash considered to be the bases, along with a happy yellow sun with sunglasses on, with green grass covering the ground. Caboose grinned at Wash, holding it up higher so Tucker could see too.

"Look! I drew all of us together!" Caboose explained proudly, eyes glimmering somewhat from the unnatural indoor lighting. "Do you like it?"

"I love it." Wash admitted, smiling back at the Blue rookie. "Why don't you show the Reds?"

Caboose nodded, jumping up and sprinting over to the other soldiers. Washington sighed, staring back at the game, but mind elsewhere; as corny as it was, Wash was determined to keep these soldiers safe, even though he had once considered them as nothing but cannon fodder, he was now unable to deny his fondness for the crazy Reds and Blues. Even as Grif shouted about being orange to Caboose, with Simmons muttering something along the lines of 'I'm never gonna let you live this down', he felt oddly at peace, simply listening to the rain thump upon the windows as the storm continued to power on.

...

I came down on a bottle rocket

Found my heart right where I locked it

Last night like rain on chalk

It's gone like money in my pocket

...

The plane ride home was alot longer than Washington would've liked, especially with the tension in the air. Tucker was looking anywhere but at Wash, Caboose had his arms wrapped around Wash's middle, Sarge was shining his shotgun and muttering short curses every once in awhile when he slipped, Grif was busy flying the plane, Simmons was keeping Grif company up front, and Doc was reading a book to himself while tapping his foot to an unknown rhythm. Washington, for his part, didn't say a word, only allowed Caboose to cling to him, thinking about his past solemnly.

"Dude, you need to lighten the fuck up." Tucker said suddenly; Simmons glanced into the back of the ship with a worried expression, before turning his attention back to Grif. "Be happy, you're free to do whatever the fuck you want with us in Blood Gulch!"

Washington, on his part, kept quiet, feeling the weight of Caboose's armor against him press into his thigh, making a soft ache spurt from the area. "Not talkin'?" Sarge questioned, looking at Tucker with a raised eyebrow; everyone but Wash had ditched their helmets on the floor earlier in the flight. "Give 'im time." He went back to cleaning his shotgun.

"Hey, I'm just trying to get to know our newest Freelancer is all!" Tucker claimed, putting his hands up innocently, as if he was being held back by a gun.

"Maybe he's just tired, Tucker?" Doc suggested; Washington looked his way, feeling a bit grateful for his intrusion into the one-sided conversation. "We all are; let's rest for awhile." He was asleep in seconds, leaning on Sarge, who muttered something about lazy dirtbags.

"I'm not lazy, I'm fucking flying this plane!" Grif suddenly yelled; Wash wondered if he had some sort of 'Sarge Saying Lazy' radar or something, kinda like how Carolina always knew when York fucked up big ti-

Carolina.

Washington shook his head, chasing the unexpected and offensive thought away. Carolina was dead. She was gone. He needed to get that through his thick fucking skull. "Shut the fuck up, Grif! And watch the road!" Simmons suddenly yelled, glaring at Grif from up front.

"It's not a road, Simmons; it's the fucking sky. Hell, what are we even gonna hit in the sky? A bird?" Grif asked sarcastically, none-the-less he refocused on flying the plane.

"Good riddance." Sarge muttered, earning a soft 'Word' from Grif.

Tucker groaned after another ten minutes of semi-awkward silence, leaning into his seat more before sitting up, constantly trying to find a comfortable position; the spasms of attempted comfort reminded Washington offhandedly of Connie, or C.T. as she had demanded to be called by her peers. He shook his head again, chasing yet another thought from Project Freelancer away. Tucker was right, Washington was free... so why didn't he feel free?

...

All my troubles in the rear view mirror, I know, I know

All my troubles in the rear view mirror, I know, I know

I got, I got, I got to keep them there

To keep them there

To keep them there

To keep them there

...

This time, the plane ride home was... short, to say the least.

Mere seconds ago, Agent Washington had, by the possible losing of The Devil's game of Street Poker, tripped and efficiently yanked out a giant plug while hanging out in the back of the ship. As soon as lights had started flashing, Wash made a point to fuck it and duck back into the barracks, where everyone else was, all equally as pale and speechless as he... except for Caboose. Carolina had her hair down that day, he noted, Donut helping her dye the growing in blonde roots an almost bloody red that shown bright and thick, reminding Wash of a certain brunet with his fingers lost in her cherry glossed strings...

"Sup, Wash!" Tucker greeted, smirking at the older man, though Wash noted he looked.. guilty, just like everyone else. "You, uh, you okay?"

"Aside from nearly going deaf via emergency sirens? I'm okay." Washington replied, thunking down on a bunk where Sarge was sitting. "So... how is everything back here? I've been mostly around the piloting equipme- I-I mean, um... cafeteria?"

Carolina gave Wash an unconvinced look, while Grif perked up from beside Simmons, one hand intertwined in Simmons's orange, puffy locks, the other holding an empty soda can. "Dude, they let you back in there? They kicked my ass out!"

"That's because you ate almost everything edible on board!" Simmons snapped, glaring up at Grif, head in the orange space marine's lap. "And get your greasy fingers outta my hair!"

"But it's so fluffy..." Grif complained, to which Simmons groaned, pretending to sleep again so Grif could continue petting him.

"I wish my hair was fluffy..." Caboose mumbled, looking hopefully at the puffy hairdo Tucker had going for him.

Tucker squinted at Caboose, a tiny scowl gracing his face. "Don't even think about it, Caboose." He warned, scooting away from the blue SPARTAN-like space marine, yelping as Caboose started petting his hair. "Ack! Wash, make him quit it!"

Carolina honest to God snorted, while Sarge rolled his icy eyes, unamused by the Blue Team's shenanigans. Wash smirked, watching the teal or aqua marine struggle regardless of Caboose's death-grip on his fluff. The scene for once did not remind Washington of Project Freelancer, a scene he happily accepted, one he could finally dub as a Sim Soldier moment. He didn't have alot of those, at least, not alot that weren't overwritten or corrupted by memories and flashes of the backwater bullshit that was PFL. As thoughts danced through Washington's mind, tiny ballerinas spinning and sprinting, some falling forever into the darkness, a strange thought bubble popped up-

These Simulation Soldiers, even if it wasn't them directly, were responsible for alot of bullshit he'd dealt with. When he thought about it all, Wash really started to see how they caused it too. Caboose had never returned Epsilon to the UNSC, sending him to prison by mistake. The Reds had run his not-then-sorry ass over with their Warthog, nearly crippling him in the process. Tucker and Epsilon had killed the Insurrectionist leader, in the process leaving all gateways to finding Connie's body gone. And to top it all off, the Reds had all worked together to send the Meta hurtling off a cliff, taking away his last and probably closest friend in the entire universe. And now... here he was... sitting among them, accepted and loved, regardless of his past actions.

Kicking back into the present, Washington grinned, watching Tucker flail and wiggle in Caboose's grip. "I dunno, Tucker..." He replied, seeing Carolina beginning to grin in the corner of his eye. "Your hair seems awfully fluffy today, maybe you should just let him pet it a little?"

"Fuck that!" Tucker screeched back, falling half to the ground, knees clamping at they hit the hard iron of the flooring, upper torso in Caboose's lap. "Caboose! You let go or else!"

"You need to lighten the fuck up, Tuck," Church commented, popping up above Carolina's head, arms crossed with his head tilted. He'd be smirking, Wash decided somewhere in his mind. "Try to let Caboose have a little fun, why don't ya?"

"I fucking hate you!" Tucker screamed back, finally wriggling hard enough for Caboose to let go, except he was standing, sending him hurtling with new-found control on top of Simmons, and into Grif's lap. "Shit!"

"What the fuck!?" Simmons screamed, kicking out, effectively hitting Tucker's in the heels several times. "You're crushing me!"

"Ow! Get off!" Grif ordered, shoving both men off, glaring at them while crossing his chubby arms. "You guys suck!"

Washington sighed happily, falling on his back, letting it find comfort on the mattress. The lights are still flashing, he notes, but knowing their luck, they will all survive whatever happens next. Being around the Reds and Blues has brought more than Wash expected, when he lets himself drift into his inner mind, but in the end, he wouldn't trade his relationships with them all for the whole goddamn universe. He smiled, after some time, falling into a deep, undisturbed sleep. later, he would be awoken by Caboose and Tucker dragging him off the newly crashed space-shuttle, going on about nothing too important. But still, all the love and affection they'd all cooperatively given Agent Washington...

He'd keep it there.

...

A/N: SUPER DUPER LONG STORY, BLAH! Oh my God, took me three months of on and off writing to finish this, and by God, I fucking did it! So here, enjoy my life's work! Please R&R, which means read and review. Seriously, I'd like reviews, I worked hard on this!

~Supercasey.


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